


Notes of All This Shit

by marreena



Series: non omnis moriar [8]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Drabble Collection, Fluff, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-12
Updated: 2016-11-11
Packaged: 2018-06-01 18:35:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6531388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marreena/pseuds/marreena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Each time there's something happening, Varric makes a note in his journal, scribbling it before Sera has a chance to snatch it away. </p>
<p>A story to tell for a later time, so none of this is forgotten.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> also can be called "tales of varric being an old man and aggressively writing it down to complain about later in the tavern"

Varric can practically feel himself aging with every shriek of the Herald. 

Dorian shoots him a pained look as he attempts to shake out all the sand of his leather pants, which is an amazing image of considering he is wearing nothing but his smalls and is practically flailing around. Varric himself has given up and accepted his skin being rubbed raw by the sand from this voided desert until his turn in the spring which is where he will promptly drown himself to save himself from the next two week long journey through the desert. It looks like from Dorian’s longing looks at the water that he will do the same—thankfully, Varric’s pretty sure the Inquisition will manage fine without both of them. 

“Sera! That’s my tit!"

“It’s my tit now!” 

Dorian shoots him another look as if he could do anything to help him, which he _can’t._  


“I’m going to die if I don’t get in the water soon,” Dorian pleads. 

Varric throws his hands up, “I can’t do anything. Talk to the Lady Herald.” 

“The Lady Herald,” Dorian makes an exaggerated arm waving motion which he translates to mean _fuck her_ , “is _busy_  doing Maker knows what with Sera.” 

Varric follows Dorian’s accusing finger to where the Herald, Sera, and Cassandra are currently bathing—Vivienne is already out of the spring in impressive time and is currently hanging her robes to dry. There’s some tarps strategically positioned around the small spring to create some sort of privacy, but with the sort of noises Sera and the Herald are making, there’s really no need. 

Iron Bull walks over from helping set up some of the camp and appears not to be bothered by sand that’s gotta be so far up his ass he's going to be coughing it out soon. He simply stretches and grins at them like this is a normal, great trip that the Herald’s dragged them on, “How you doin’?” 

“I think the Herald is a fear demon,” Dorian mutters and starts banging his boot against a rock again. 

“Heh, a hot one,” he chuckles and earns a quite poignant glare from Vivienne. “Yo, boss, you done yet? Dorian’s got sand so far up his ass he’s going to be shitting it for days.” 

Her laughs echoes over the splashing of the water, “I— _fuck_ ,” and another splash and gurgling with only Sera now laughing. 

Cassandra _shrieks_ , “ _Sera_!” and Varric can only describe the next set of noises as two people dying, a whole lot of swearing, and the Seeker screaming stuff that he thought was only reserved for the battle. Within the minute, Cassandra steps out perfectly clean in a new set of linens besides the glaring blush on her face. Her glare sweeps the entire camp, intimidating everyone back in line before she stalks to the clothing line to hang her leathers. 

However, all the work Cassandra did to try and fix all of them back in line is undone with both the Herald streaking out of the spring with just a cloth shirt that barely covers anything, clutching both of their clothes to her chest with Sera screaming and yipping behind her bare naked. 

Cassandra freezes in places as she watches Sera tackle the Herald into a tent causing it to deflate on them. Instead of responding, she turns to Varric and Dorian, “The spring is yours.” 

"Heh! I found the Herald’s holy place!"

They both stiffly nod and mechanically make their way to the natural bath as they listen to the giggles die down when  Vivienne makes her way over to the two of them. 

Varric is getting old. 


	2. Nothing Fits When Your Hand Glows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Each time the Herald's tent nearly falls over, there's a story to accompany it.

The Herald never stops struggling. Not built for this life at all with all long, thick limbs and pretty hair and pretty eyes and pretty _everything_. Even her words fall out wrong most of the time—too polite, not enough chip. She can’t even take her pants off without taking her _other_ pants off with them. She struggles to make sure she doesn’t flash Sera—although that’s not unwelcome at all—because her legs are just a bit smaller now along with the rest of her. 

She can’t keep the weight on her and it makes her weird, awkward. New body, old clothes. Common problem that Sera knows. 

“Do ya not know anything?” Sera quips at her, quick and right when the Herald’s trying to step out of a leg of her breeches. She nearly falls off her ass as she’s awkwardly crouching in the tent since she’s too tall to stand up and throws a look to Sera. Desperate, maybe even angry. Nobles don’t like looking silly, Sera knows, and right now she looks it. 

“What?” she asks after the Herald loses her words. 

She huffs and falls down on her ass that’s covered in smalls way too large for her. They shift a bit and nearly exposes her, but Sera looks away—she _wants_ to look but she can’t. The Herald’s already got a bitter twist to her lips and she doesn’t want it to stay that way. 

“Come here,” she insists and grabs the knife she keeps with her always, just in case.

And she watches the knife in her hand with a line between her eyes and a little bit of fear too, “Why?” she asks finally. 

Sera snorts, “You nobles,” she grumbles and carefully pulls at her loose smalls on the side. “Don’t move,” she warns and slips the knife in between the smalls and the Herald’s dark skin of her hip. Surprisingly, she doesn’t move and actually listens to her. 

Her knife tears through the fabric easily and the Herald’s hand immediately comes down to hold the fabric in place. Sera quickly gets to it before the Herald makes anymore warning noises in the back of her throat and ties a little bow on the side. It’s not tight enough but that’s the point. 

Sera does the other side too and then it’s nice and tight and actually fits the Herald quite nicely. She grins and sits back as the Herald runs her fingers over the fixed smalls. Slowly a smile crosses her face and she looks up at Sera, and even through the dim light of their tent she can see how happy she is now, and Sera can’t help but return the grin.

“Thank you, Sera,” the Herald says so stiffly and _damn_  she is such a rich noble. 

Sera laughs and laughs, clutching her stomach before punching her right in the bow. The Herald yelps and goes immediately to tackle her, “It hurts when ya get hitting the bow—be careful!” she giggles, and the Herald nearly falls through the tent wall.

At least her smalls stayed on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first time writing Sera and it was fucking difficult but also worth it


	3. Off the Cliff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some of the shards are just a bit out of the way and someone has to get them

"Herald, I will not let you do this."

She only stops for a second to look up at Cassandra with a dry look and goes back to tying the rope around her waist. Varric thinks warmly back to the days when Trevelyan was nervous and always tried to defer to someone else's order. 

Now she looks them blank in the eye and refuses. 

He likes this version better especially when she doesn't listen to the Seeker. "Someone has to get the shard and I'm not asking any of you to do it for me." She pauses once, "I've also done this before so." 

The Seeker sputters and moves closer to the Herald but Bull cuts her off as he ties his own rope around his waist. "You're the youngest sibling, right?" Bull gestures towards the Herald. She nods and tugs on the rope to make sure it's secure. "Oh yeah she's definitely done this before. Besides I've done this before with Dalish."

"Dalish weighs a lot less than the Herald and I doubt she was in armor when you did it."

At that the Heralds head whips up, "It's not like I'm wearing full plate. I'm, uh,” she glances at Varric, pleading.

“Leather."

“ _Leather_ ,” she replies back to Cassandra triumphantly. 

“That doesn’t mean it’s not heavy!” 

At that point, Bull steps in right behind the Herald, standing like the bodyguard that he is. Damn, why didn’t he have one of those in Kirkwall? “All you small people weigh the same to me. I can easily lift her armor or not.” 

“Then lift _the dwarf_. We do not need to risk the Herald.” 

At that he interjects, “Um, this dwarf is not going off the ground and statistically, I don’t think dwarves do well _off the ground_ …” he trails off though when he notices Iron Bull undoing the rope around the Herald’s waist and retying it. Varric is amazed and slightly unsettled by how quickly he is able to create a harness out of the ropes. He almost feels uncomfortable watching them—it's too intimate. 

Bull sees his stare out the corner of his eye, “It’s a qunari thing.” 

“Sure,” the Herald mutters but stays still nonetheless, also catching on. "Why isn't yours tied like this?"

"Qunari spines aren't weak like humans." He tightens the next bond a bit tighter than comfort, “Besides, what you were tying would have broken your neck or back if your actually fell."

Varric enjoys the Seeker’s strangled gasp, quite a lot, even as it turns into a growl, "Herald! You will not-"

Bull picks the Herald up. 

It's equal parts amusing and unsettling to see him pick her up like she's a child, with his hands holding right underneath the armpits. She on the other hand, is finding this all parts shocking as she stares blankly at him. Before she can even register and say something, Bull shift her until she's resting on his hip like a child. 

Varric looks for a response, but for the first time in his life, his tongue is tied. 

The Herald thankfully picks up for him, “See Cassandra!” And all she needs is her tongue sticking out to complete the image of a spoiled child. She throws her arms around Bull’s neck and easily settles in his arms.

“You’re pretty easy to hold.” 

“Well, I’m the youngest,” she says as if it explains everything—which to be fair _it does_.

Varric, after all, remembers Hawke with Carver. 

“Maybe I should just carry you everywhere."

“You would be a better ride than that Forder,” she grins, and Varric glances to see the color drain from the Seeker’s face because even _she_  got that. One doesn’t have to practically live with Isabela to pick up on that innuendo. 

Bull grins back, “I am,” and drops her off the cliff after the shard. 


	4. First Meeting with the Bull

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s something in her eyes when she looks at him—apprehension, adrenaline, and perhaps a bit of fear as well, probably the first time that she’s ever seen a Qunari up close—and she quickly ducks out of the way of an incoming attack. He manages to raise his axe just in time to catch it and deflect it, but he’s lost her again.

He notices the Inquisition scout point them out to a group on the top of the hill, “We got an audience, make it look good!” Bull shouts over the battle to his Chargers. 

It’s not a hard fight by any means, but still better to look good in front of his future employer than like a joke. He called them here, and this isn’t like the other jobs that he usually takes. He needs to get this job, but he doesn’t think that it will be that hard to convince them that they need him. 

Of course, he also doesn’t think that they’ll just slide down the hill to him, but they do. A girl is in the front of the other three who are following—two humans, an elf, and a dwarf, and if his reports are right, the girl in the front is the Herald. With one glance at Krem, the girl nods and jumps into the fray to help end the battle and get straight to the negotiation—Bull likes that. No time to just watch, not necessarily the smartest thing, but still what she does and what the other follow suit. 

He focuses on watching her fight instead of the fight in front of him, but the moment she enters the battle, he looses track of her. It’s not often that that happens to Bull, and feels quite blindsided when she appears in front of him to take down his target with a quick stab in the back. 

The Herald of Andraste is a sneaky ass rogue—nice. 

There’s something in her eyes when she looks at him—apprehension, adrenaline, and perhaps a bit of fear as well, probably the first time that she’s ever seen a Qunari up close—and she quickly ducks out of the way of an incoming attack. He manages to raise his axe just in time to catch it and deflect it, but he’s lost her again.

When the battle is done he stretches and enjoys how the adrenaline has loosened his joints and lets him move freely. He does a quick count—fifteen on their side dead, only two injured on his. A good fight by any standards, but he’d have preferred none on his, considering the Herald is here to inspect him. He calls them to stand down, and orders Krem around some.

When there is no threat, he catches sight of the Herald again as she takes off her helmet. When she goes to speak to Krem real quick, he realizes she’s tall, standing above Krem by quite a bit. Ariala Trevelyan, noble by birth to Bann Trevelyan of Ostwick in the Free Marches—so not as bad as a noble as she could be—with relations in just about every corner of Thedas, and has some sort of magic shit that helps her close rifts. That’s the basic information that he has been provided with and it’s his job to get the rest. 

She’s damn pretty is the first thing he notices. Long, curly ashen hair tied back into a tight braid, dark golden skin, and definitely _something_ hidden underneath her armor. She smiles at Krem with a smile that nearly knocks the breath out of Krem if he wasn’t already breathless from the battle. The warrior from their group immediately stands near the Herald as if her presence would ward away everything bad that could harm her—and from seeing her battle, there’s a good chance she could. 

When she approaches Bull, he notices that there isn’t any blood on her that isn’t her own, so she’s not a completely incompetent fighter. That’s half surprising considering she’s a noble and probably has relatively no training for this intensive of a fight. The Inquisition must be working hard to get their Herald into proper shape. She waits for the rest of group to fall in line behind her, obviously not comfortable with this odd form of leadership that she’s been forced into. 

For the small bit of fear earlier, the Herald stands in front of Bull tall and proud, chin up. 

“Iron Bull, right?” 

Bull grins, “ _The_ Iron Bull.” 

 

 


	5. The Inquisition's Favorite Pirate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Inquisitor, are you sure this is a good idea? This could create quite the conflict." 
> 
> "That's exactly why I'm doing it. My mother always said that conflict creates a bonding experience for all involved."

“ _Varric_!” 

It seems impossible but the Seeker’s voice cuts through all of Skyhold and instantly puts everyone on the defensive. All of the guard’s put their hands on the hilt of their swords and Varric wishes there would be some way for him to slip out of here unnoticed, but there are too many witnesses and not enough people willing to lie—die?—for him. He tries to shrink and blend into the training ring, but he doubts it does anything. 

The Inquisitor stops her sparring with Cullen and turns to raise a brow at him. “What the fuck did you do?” she mouths at him. 

He shrugs and shrinks even farther down. The Inquisitor thankfully comes and stands over him as some sort of protection. “Hawke better not be back, I don’t know if I can protect you from that,” she snickers. 

Varric sends her a look, a very pointed look. 

Before Cassandra even gets close to him, the crowd parts, the first warning signs of the approaching storm, and the signs that the Inquisition is willing to sell him out like the weak willed bastards they are. “No one is loyal here.” 

“Not to you,” she laughs.

“ _Varric!_ ” she shouts again and he tries to shrink into his collar. 

It, however, does not work, as she grabs him by the collar and flips him around. The Inquisitor does not move from her position of leaning against the practice fence—she just cocks her head, interested in what or _who_  has gotten Cassandra is such a piss fit. 

“Why is the pirate here?” she hisses and _spits_ on him. Disgusting. 

It then hits him, “Rivaini’s here? You’re shitting me.” 

But like the blighted pirate she is, she follows the storm that is Cassandra and stands behind her, _also_  snickering. “Hello, Varric, nice to see you’re still cowering behind your chest hair as usual,” she laughs and puts a hand on Cassandra’s arm. It is like a shock runs through her and she jerks away immediately—she is also extremely flushed but Varric would never admit that for the sake of not getting his head cut off.

“Not that I’m not happy to see you, but why are you here in the Frostbacks?”

“Wait, you did not invite her?” Cassandra interjects looking between the two.

Isabela grins, “I got a very nice letter offering employment—I just had to come see if it were true and not a scam.”

“Who—?” they both start but the Inquisitor cuts in.

“I invited her,” she offers a grin that matches Isabela’s own, and Varric feels a sudden dread as if he introduced a blighted darkspawn to a vint.

“ _No_.” Cassandra almost begs because there is only one person’s word she cannot supersede, and the Inquisitor knows this very well.

She stops leaning against the fence and he watches as Isabela lets her eyes drag down the Inquisitor’s glistening, post-workout body without any shame and any sign of stopping for that matter. She stretches a bit—giving Isabela an eyeful—and cocks her head to Cassandra, “I thought you said that the Inquisition could use some naval power.” 

“Not a _pirate_.” 

“Technically, I’m not a pirate if I’m being formally contracted.” 

“Isabela has connection with _everyone_  and _everyone_  owes her something. I think she could benefit the Inquisition a lot as one of our agents.” Her eyes glint a bit as the Inquisitor returns her gaze, “Also, I’ve heard that Isabela has… _other_  assets.” 

“Other assets that will benefit the Inquisition?” 

“They’ll benefit me, the Inquisitor, so _yes_.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @ bioware you let my warden and hawke bang isabela??? let my inquisitor please?? i want isabela to have the full set so she can brag 
> 
> also why was she never at skyhold bioware???


	6. Survivor's Guilt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of course she did not go to the Conclave alone.

Cassandra tries to ignore the soft cries that the Herald was making. Let her believe that her attempts at muffling them were working, but each soft one rolls into a harder cry that burns at her skin and festers even deeper.  

She should roll over, call to her and comfort her if she will have but that is the big issue for Cassandra—will she have it? She does not know her or trust her. Would Cassandra’s attempt even comfort her? When she shifts in her cot, the cries suddenly silence and that's enough for Cassandra to know that she shouldn't be hearing this. It is something personal and deep and it would be invasive for her to do anything. 

Varric is not her, however.  

His lumbering steps are obvious as he approaches their tent and they both go quiet as they listen to him. Eventually the flap on their tent is undone and his head peaks in. He makes eye contact with Cassandra and she can see how much he disapproves and then turns his full attention on the suddenly still lump across from her, "Ostwick you doing okay?"

The Herald does not move in her bedroll and tries to feign sleep but Varric will not let the poor girl go. Cassandra makes a deep noise in the back of her throat when he doesn't back off. He shoots her a withered look but continues on, "I could hear you, you're not fooling me." 

At that, she finally shifts in her bed to turn her probably bloodshot gaze towards him. She hums a response back probably not trusting her own voice at the moment. "Give an old man some peace and come sit with me," he waves her on out.

She makes another soft noise before keeping one of her blankets around her as she gets up. After a long day of travel to the Hinterlands, the Herald is slow and sore. She needs a full night of rest. 

"You too Seeker," Varric says. 

Cassandra freezes, "I doubt the Herald wants me out there as well."

Even in the dim light of their tent, her gaze still pierces and commands, "I wouldn't mind."

Cassandra nods and get up out of her bed.

They all sit around the fire  a bit too close so Cassandra can feel her skin burning just a bit, but the other two do not seem bother by it. Curled into a ball with her blanket wrapped around her makes the Herald seem impossibly small even though she rivals Cassandra in height. Her lids are heavy and she can see where the tears have made a path down her face. She sniffs and leans against Varric but doesn't bother looking at either of them. 

She wipes some of her tears away with the blanket but they continue to fall even though her sobs and controlled now. Varric nudges her, "What's wrong, Ostwick?" 

She's quiet for a moment and Cassandra expects that she won't talk but she surprises her, "The Conclave," she admits. 

She blinks again, more tears falling, "I didn't go to the Conclave alone." 

A pang hits Cassandra deep in her chest as she processes what that means. She shifts in her thin nightclothes and averts her eyes from the poor girl. For a moment she is lost in her tears and Varric gently rubs her back, attempting to comfort her. "Who'd you lose?"

Cassandra wants to hit Varric. He is forcing this out of her and not being gentle at all. She immediately interjected, “Herald, if you don’t wish to tell us don’t feel forced to do so.” 

She took in a breath that shuddered her entire body, “It’s fine… I went with my brother, uncle, and two cousins.” 

Her hand hesitantly rests on the other girls shoulder, she does not know if she should squeeze it or rub it or what she should do to comfort her. The loss of family is something Cassandra knows well, and the loss of a brother is something that is very close to her heart. She cannot imagine what she is going through, being thrust out of her old life, losing part of her family, and now she is the Herald of Andraste. 

The girl is barely old enough to be an adult and she does not deserve this. 

“I-I get it,” she stammers, the tears choking her voice, “People die—so many died at the Conclave—but why didn’t I?”

“That is how Fate works,” Varric mutters.

“Thaddeus was destined to die?” she bites back. “Why did Andraste or _whatever_  choose me? I cannot fight. I cannot do anything. I could not have been the best option."

“I cannot tell you why you were chosen. That is for you to do, Trevelyan." 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @ bioware let my characters actually react to tragic things u do to them


	7. You Can Put It Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There really can't only be one rune, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> inspired by my own experiences of never dropping a veilfire and a textpost on tumblr reigniting my passion for the green fire

“You know you can put it down.” 

Ever so slowly the Herald turned to look at Solas, her hand still clutching the torch. She glances in between Solas and the veil fire. “Are you talking to me?” she cocks her head. 

Solas also cocks his head as if he's trying to figure out if the Herald is naive, just plain dumb, or maybe has gotten knocked around by a Templar one too many times. He glances to him and Cassandra as if to say—really? This is the girl you choose as your savior.

Hell, she's doing a better job than Hawke would have. 

Finally Solas' dead gaze turns back to her, "Yes."

"What if we need it," she says immediately and holds it a bit closer as if to protect it from the mean, obtuse elf. Varric wonders briefly if it'll catch her on fire, and how loud the Seeker would scream. 

"We already found the rune, I believe we are fine."

"What if there is another?"

"I assure you I should be able to conjure up more veil fire if need be."

She still does not look like she trusts him. "If need be, I can light more."

Of course the Herald looks like she does not want to rely on Solas more than she needs to—which is a fair feeling. Varric feels the same about many things with their new companions, specifically the ones that locked him up. 

"What if you get knocked out?"

"You're being a bit ridiculous."

"I'm being cautious and I'm planning ahead," she shoots back and Varric recognizes that tone from the many nobles in Kirkwall. "Better to be safe than sorry, my mother always said."

"Is your mother here and does she know about Veilfire?"

"Do not doubt my mothers unnatural ability to be right no matter the circumstance." 

“Does your mother know all about magic’s interweaving?” 

“I said, _do not doubt my mother_.” 

“As cute as this is, Ostwick, there is a bear fast approaching. I recommend you drop the torch."

“What if we need it?” 

“Herald, please!"

“Cassandra, you can handle this.” 

“ _Herald!_ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let her hold the green fire, solass


	8. A Letter for a Templar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kirkwall has burned everyone, Cullen knows this and fears it.

It takes him by surprise when someone knocks on his door some time after nightfall—it’s not that he doesn’t get visitors, but more so they don’t tend to knock. Cullen thinks for a moment that it might be Cassandra here to berate him for having his dinner in his office, and also not finishing it, he revises as he looks at the plate that still has half his food on it. His stomach is in knots currently and the thought of any food… 

“Come in,” he calls out and shuffles some of the papers on his desk to seem more organized incase this person is important. 

The Inquisitor ducks her head in real quick as if to check and he nods to her to come in. She smiles warm and soft and steps into his office. She wastes no time in coming up to his desk and staring pointedly at his meal but does not comment. Cullen nearly blushes as he watches her stand there, she’s pretty, so pretty in just the candlelight of his office. The harsh blonde of her hair turns into a much more golden color, and—well, Cullen could go on, however, to keep some sort of professional appearance, he stops.

He has always been a weak man when it comes to pretty people.

She dips her head in a greeting, “I was wondering if you had a list of templar recruits from Ostwick or Kirkwall, Commander?”

He pauses for a second, _why does she want it_ , and then shifts through a file in his desk till he finds the sheets that list all of their recruits. He holds it for her to take, “Uh, it’s not sorted or anything, but if you look through these sheets, I know there are a couple recruits who fit what you’re looking for.” She nods and looks it over.

He waits an appropriate moment before nodding to her, “Why do you need them?” 

She tucks a curled piece of hair that has pulled from her braid—and for a moment he wants to tell her about his own hair and it’s undeniable urge to curl uncontrollably but holds back for the sake of them both—and looks up at him. She stares curiously as if she could sense his thoughts, raises a brow as if daring him to vocalize them, but says nothing about it. “I need a roundabout way to contact my brother and he worked for both Circles, so a templar from one would be perfect.” 

“I could do it,” Cullen immediately offers, “As you know, I am from Kirkwall.” 

She laughs, “Thank you for the offer, but you are a bit too obviously from the Inquisition and thus from me.” She pauses for a moment, “Can you write down Ronan Daneth?” she flips through the sheets and calls out a couple other names to him. He vaguely recognizes a couple, but gets lost as he tries to remember who the Inquisitor’s brother was. If he had been at Kirkwall within the past ten years, Cullen had to have known him. 

“What is your brother’s name?” he can’t even place the name himself and he feels slightly ashamed. Trevelyan sounds familiar but anything else is missing. He knows partially that is the lyrium withdrawal’s fault, but chides himself as that cannot be the only issue. In Kirkwall, he was truly far too absorbed in… _other_  things rather than everyone under his charge. 

“William Trevelyan,” she answers and puts the papers back down on his desk. 

His brow knits together as he tries to call together at least a vague image but all he gets is _big_  and well, “He was quite…tall.” 

Her laugh is soft as she leans against his desk, “He is. He might have gone by Bo there—I’m not sure.” 

Finally, he can get an image of a tall and broad man with curled hair that could rival his own. He was a strong sword fighter to rival any of the other troops but even more danger socially as he was liked both by his fellow templars and many of the mages much to many’s chagrin. Cullen can see the family resemblance in both appearance and personality.

He smiles and nods, “Bo was very charming,” he finally decides on saying. 

Her smile instantly turns teasing and he feels like he’s in the War Room again with Leliana standing over him pointing out every small thing he does—or Maker forbid, _his_ _sister_. “Did he charm you, Commander?” she _purrs_  and the flush that covers his face is not at all subtle. 

“He charmed _everyone_. He was very nice.”

She nods, “An understatement, but yes.”

“Then, he…uh, made it out of Kirkwall? Last I heard after… _everything_ , he was unaccounted for.”

She looks up and grits her teeth unintentionally, “Yes, when he first caught wind of everything he went for the kids. Bo, he and my sisters did everything the did to get the children out, both the templars and mages.” Her eyes are steel and Cullen can feel the ground slipping out from underneath him. Perhaps, the Inquisitor has been spending too much time with Cassandra as she is intimidating enough that Cullen has started to stutter around her. 

No matter how far he goes, no matter who he meets, Kirkwall has affected them all, some more personal than others, and looking into the Herald’s eyes he can see the grief and fury. She turns to leave, after all, she has what she needs, and he thinks that perhaps there is a residual hate in her heart that she wants to hide. He would not blame her if she happened to harbor ill-will towards him. 

He nods, understanding, “I will have to send them a letter thanking them.” 

She pauses mid-step, her body freezing in the doorframe. The look over her shoulder freezes him as well, “Better to make it to just Bo. My sisters did not make it out of Kirkwall and there’s no use thanking the dead.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i imagine there's like a version of five degrees of trevelyan in thedas
> 
> everybody knows one

**Author's Note:**

> the quiz in this is my trevelyan from the non omnis moriar series but she will remain decently gen for most of this and you don't have to read the rest of the series to get these drabbles
> 
> also prompt me on [tumblr](http://www.marreena.tumblr.com)


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